


mask off

by lazy_desi



Series: chicken soup for the soul, except it's just me and i only write when I'm fucked up [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Essays, I'm going through it lol, Mental Health Issues, Self-Hatred, Self-Reflection, Short, Substance Abuse, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:14:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26519587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazy_desi/pseuds/lazy_desi
Summary: on playing dress-up
Series: chicken soup for the soul, except it's just me and i only write when I'm fucked up [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928359
Comments: 3





	mask off

It’s one of those disgustingly hot days where the air is thicker than the layers of concealer caked on top of the bags that have taken up permanent residence beneath my eyes, and the inexplicably expensive Donna Karan _Cashmere Mist_ deodorant that my mother bought me in lieu of affection is barely doing its job. I’m hunched over a porcelain sink currently stained with gunks of leave-in conditioner and eyeshadow residue, smearing the black eyeliner not-so-artfully framing my lashes from my brow bone to my cheeks like the crazy bitch I am.

I feel beautiful in an avant-garde sort of way for approximately two seconds, kind of like Lady Gaga in that Applause music video, until my depression catches up with my drug-addled brain and reminds me that Applause was one of her biggest flops to date.

“Dumb bitch,” I giggle to my reflection as I blend the black smudges on my face further towards my nose, and watch in child-like fascination as my left nostril seemingly disappears. “See, you don’t even need a nose job,” I crow at the mirror triumphantly, as if I had somehow made my nose skinnier instead of just dowsing it in charcoal like a kindergartener who hasn’t yet learned the proper crayons to use when coloring.

For a moment, I wonder why I feel prettier than I ever have in my 20 unremarkable years of existence like this; sweat-slicked and half covered in unblended liquid eyeliner from CVS that is beginning to drip towards my collarbone.

When my blood isn't around fifty percent Strawberry Lemonade Svedka, I’m self-aware enough to know that it’s because when I make myself grotesque on purpose, I’m under the illusion that people who see me will be horrified because I have unnatural warpaint on, as opposed to being disgusted by my actual god-given face. It’s some sort of fucked up self-defense mechanism, scaring people with a fake me before they get scared of the real me.

God, if that isn’t the most boring and cliché faux suicidal middle-schooler sentence I’ve ever read. I promise I don’t parade around like some sort of fucking low-budget phantom of the opera with half of my face colored in begging for attention, okay loves? My antidepressants always do their job _just_ enough to puppeteer my hands into dousing my face with Garnier Makeup-Removing Micellar Water and tucking myself under the sheets I haven’t had the energy to change in months, fidgeting until the melatonin kicks in.


End file.
